


Untouchable

by TristansGirl



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-14 10:36:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TristansGirl/pseuds/TristansGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter is in love with someone he can't have, someone he can't even touch . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a drabble to throw off writer's block. This was born from the concept in the movie The Mummy, where the Pharaoh's wife cannot be touched by anyone else because of the gold paint covering her body. Could possibly be part of a larger story

Peter stares at the man before him, afraid to blink, afraid that if he even closes his eyes for just one moment, that the man will disappear.

He reaches out one hand, tempted to touch, but manages to pull back before his fingers can caress the silver skin. 

“Peter,” the man, Neal, says, “You can touch me. I want you to.”

But Peter shakes his head, hand back safely at his side. The silver skin isn’t natural, of course. It’s a dusting of shimmer that covers Neal from head to toe. It’s supposed to make him look ethereal, an unnatural vision. And it does, but it’s more than that. It’s how Neal’s master assures that no other man or woman ever touches him. 

“The Khan will know,” Peter says. “I can’t bear the thought of what would happen to you if he found out.”

Neal smiles, and the action makes him somehow more beautiful, his impossibly blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “I know how to reapply it. He’ll never know.”

Peter still hesitates. The Khan is a very powerful man, and very protective of his prize concubine, the one he values above all the others. Peter is only a guest here, and even with his own social standing, the punishment would be terrible. 

The smile slowly disappears from Neal’s face to be replaced by a look of longing and sadness. “Peter, please. I just . . . I just want to be touched by someone who I care about, someone who doesn’t see me as a walking doll. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had that?”

The words twist into Peter’s heart and the pain they cause is more than he could have imagined. He hates the thought of Neal belonging to the Khan, hates the thought of that vile man touching him, of taking and hurting. But most of all he hates that he and Neal are relegated to this; to sneaking around the palace, to stolen moments in dark corners. 

“Why me, Neal?” he asks, just as he lifts his hand again. “Why me?”

“I don’t understand,” Neal says. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Peter says, finding that he is breathless. “You could have anyone. You really could. Why me?”

Neal drops his gaze for a moment, shaking his head before he lifts his eyes to meet Peter’s again. “You really don’t know, do you?”

Peter shakes his head. 

“Peter,” Neal says, and he himself sounds breathless now. “You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever met. Inside and out. You make me feel alive. You make me feel like I matter. And not just what I look like. You care about what I think and what I feel. You see me as I really am.” He pauses, as if to collect himself. “And I see you as you really are. Wonderful.” Another pause. “So please . . . kiss me. Touch me. Please . . . it has to be you.”

And Peter does. He reaches forward, his fingertips touching Neal’s cheek for a brief moment before he lays his entire palm against Neal’s face. His other arm is snaked around Neal’s waist, bringing him closer and closer, until they are mere millimeters apart. Until their kiss is a foregone conclusion. 

They touch, their lips, brief and chaste, before they touch again. Deeper now. Harder. 

Neal’s lips open under the insistence of his own, and he breathes into Neal’s mouth, his tongue licking inside, matching everything that Neal gives him. 

He knows that this is a crime. The punishment would be grim and terrible for them both, and yet he cannot stop. He loves this man, loves him more than he ever thought possible. 

Yet in this one moment, stolen amid the shadows of the palace, he allows himself to feel that this is forever.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to a little more with this story, but because I essentially started in the middle, I thought it'd be fun to play with the timeline a little. I hope it's not too confusing, but I'll be going back and forth, the next chapter will be close to the end of the story, until we meet up where we started. 
> 
> Thank you for reading :)

This is Peter’s second day inside the city’s great walls. The first consisted of being formally welcomed by the Khan and his ministers, of being shown around the castle and to their rooms and settling in after the long journey. Tonight, this night, is about revelry, a more casual welcome for him and his assistants. 

They stand behind him now in the great hall, their presence stolid and unobtrusive. The woman he calls by her first name, Diana. The man, he has only ever called by his last, Jones. 

“Go mingle,” Peter tells them. “You don’t have to shadow me the entire time. Go enjoy the Khan’s hospitality.”

Two, almost synchronized “yes, boss,” are his answer. 

They smile and he smiles as he watches them walk away and fade into the large crowd. The Khan walks up to him only a few moments later, a commanding and stern figure.

Peter gives the proper half-bow. “Temur Khan.”

“Peter. Are you and your team enjoying my hospitality?”

“Very much so. You are far too generous.”

“Well, we do like our guests to feel comfortable here.”

Guest isn’t quite the word Peter would choose for himself. After all, he is here to work, specially selected by the Senate of his own country to negotiate and facilitate an exchange of political prisoners. Even so, he wisely chooses not to contradict the Khan.

Peter smiles, about to answer, when he sees a man walking toward them. His smile falters as the man draws closer, the sight of him a vision. The stranger is wearing loose fitting pants, his chest bare. The combination of his dark hair and blue eyes is captivating, as is the strange silver glint to his skin. He is perhaps the most beautiful man that Peter has ever seen.

The Khan acknowledges the man by lightly touching his waist. “There you are. I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to send the guards after you.”

His tone is light enough but Peter gets the distinct feeling that the Khan isn’t pleased. 

The man just smiles, beatific and guileless. “I had to look nice for you and your guests. I would hate to make a bad impression.”

The Khan turns to Peter. “What do you think, Peter? Has he made a good impression?”

Caught off-guard by the exchange, Peter can only stammer. “I . . . uh . . .”

“It’s perfectly all right to be honest. Neal here is my most prized concubine. His only goal in this world is to please me . . . and to occasionally appear pleasing to others.”

Peter quickly looks the man, Neal, up and down. “Oh. Yeah, he’s very . . . he’s very nice.”

The Khan doesn’t seem quite satisfied with his answer, the telltale sign that of a frown darkening his features. Peter adds, “He’s very beautiful.” It is, conveniently, both the truth and the answer the Khan is looking for.

And yet it feels both strange and discomfiting to discuss the merits of someone as if they weren’t there. But Neal himself doesn’t seem to mind, his smile never once wavering. 

“You’re probably wondering about the silver,” the Khan says. He strokes his fingers down Neal’s arm, a hard, possessive gesture.

Once again, Peter’s eyes are drawn to Neal’s skin, to the thin lines where the silver has been ever so slightly smeared. “I was. It’s very unusual.”

“A precaution,” the Khan says, sounding very proud. “To insure that no one else will touch him. Anyone foolish enough to do so would regret it deeply.”

It is both a warning and a threat. Peter nods to show that he understands. 

The Khan turns his attention to Neal. “Neal, Mr. Burke and his team will likely be with us for several weeks. I expect you to be gracious. And on your best behavior.”

“Aren’t I always?”

It’s a flippant enough answer that Peter expects Neal to be reprimanded, by harsh words or an even harsher slap.

But the Khan only chuckles lightly before grabbing Neal’s chin and kissing him. The kiss is cold and bruising and Peter winces in sympathy but he knows that it could be worse. 

“Go sit. We’ll eat shortly,” the Khan tells Neal after they break apart.

Neal bows his head slightly. “As you wish, my lord.” He then turns to Peter. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Burke. I hope you enjoy your stay in our fair city.”

And then Neal winks, so lightning quick that Peter’s not even sure that it happened. He looks over at the Khan but it’s clear from his non-reaction that he saw nothing. Peter smiles a little, if only to himself, at the brashness of that small gesture. 

“He’s incorrigible,” the Khan says, “but so beautiful that one feels compelled to forgive him his sins.”

“Any and all?” Peter asks, feeling emboldened himself.

The Khan laughs, clapping him on the shoulder as he steers them towards the dining area. “No one is that beautiful, Peter. Not even that boy.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter we have moved forward in time, close to the very end of the story

Neal’s hands shake, so much that he’s forced to set down his brush before he ruins the painting that he’s been working on all morning. He rubs his hands together, trying to bring them to stillness. It doesn’t work.

He takes a deep breath, waits, and tries again. But his hands won’t stop shaking and now he begins to feel anxious and uneasy, as if he is trapped within his own skin.

Making a small noise of distress, he stands and walks to the other room. Elizabeth is there, sitting on the sofa and reading a book. She is a hundred times more beautiful here, in front of his eyes, than in the picture of her that Peter carried with him and a part of him has to wonder why he is even here. He wonders why he is even allowed to be a part of Peter’s life if he already has her. 

She looks up at him, her eyes burdened with care and concern. 

“Neal?”

It breaks him a little bit, to know that this woman cares for him so much when he is little more than a stranger. He thinks that one day, he could grow to love her. That one day, he _will_ love her. Maybe not as much as he loves Peter, but it will be love just the same. 

“Hey, El,” he says, voice dusky with emotion. 

“Are you all right?”

He goes to her just as she begins to rise. They both settle on the sofa, thighs touching. Elizabeth places a gentle hand on Neal’s leg. 

“No, not really. I couldn’t paint,” he says.

“Are you . . . do you want to talk about it?” She’s so hesitant with him, so careful, as if saying or doing the wrong thing will cause him to shatter. He should discourage this, tell her that he’s stronger than she gives him credit for, but he doesn’t. 

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Will talking help?”

“It might. We can talk through it together.”

Neal opens his mouth, and he tries, he really does, but thoughts and words evade him. 

“Did you have a flashback? Maybe about that night?” Elizabeth asks. 

He shakes his head no. Not a flashback, although the memories are never hidden too far from the surface of him. 

Not a flashback, not really, but it’s almost too easy to allow those memories to slip through and rise to the surface. He unconsciously slips his hand under his shirt and rubs across one of the scars, tracing the edges of the letter w. The ordeal of that night had been horrific, but in the end he had survived it, and it had led to this, so in a strange sort of way he is grateful for it.

He recalls the pain, from hands and knife both. He recalls being terrified as he was left outside the castle, naked and alone after it had been done. And he recalls that the fear hadn’t been for himself, not really. He’d been terrified that he would never see Peter again; terrified that he would never find him in the sprawl of the city. 

He gives a small gasp and looks at Elizabeth. “I think . . . I think I just miss Peter. I need Peter.”

“Oh honey.” She comes closer to him, bringing him to her now. Her hand caresses his hair, a soft, soothing motion. “I’m so sorry. I can try and contact him, see if he can come home early.”

As much as he wants that, as much as it sounds like heaven, he knows that he can’t have that now. Peter has a job to do, an important one at that, and he can’t simply leave at a moment’s notice because Neal is having a hard day. 

“No, it’s fine. He just went back to work. He needs to be there. I can wait until he gets home.”

“What do you need in the meantime?” Elizabeth asks. 

Neal pulls away, just enough to look into her blue eyes. He doesn’t really deserve this woman, but he today he feels selfish and he’ll take as much as he can get. 

“You,” he says. “Just you.”

She seems to understand, holding him close. He doesn’t cry, although he’s tempted to give in to it, but something in him won’t let him give up that control. 

So instead they settle in, and begin their wait for Peter to come home. For Peter to complete them both.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earlier in the story . . .

The Khan’s palace has many gardens, some grand and ornate and some smaller and more intimate, like the one that Neal sits in now. 

This is his favorite, the smallest garden of them all. It’s pretty but not fancy, and it attracts almost no one. For this reason alone it is Neal’s favorite, one of the few places where he can truly be alone, a place where he can feel safe and unguarded. 

He’s sitting on the grass, leaning back against a large tree, his sketchbook in his hands. He looks out at the garden, then down to his sketchpad and sighs, not particularly pleased with what he sees. 

“Boring. Completely boring,” he mutters. He’s about to rip out the page from the sketchpad and start over when he hears soft footfalls behind him. He tenses, turning to see who’s intruding in his private space. 

He relaxes a fraction when he sees that it’s Peter, the visitor to their country, the one that the Khan had told him to treat well. He flips back through his memory, recalling that he’d been told to be gracious and to be on his best behavior. Well, that he can certainly do. 

Peter stops, looking startled as if he hadn’t expected anyone to be here His eyes go from Neal’s face to the sketchpad and back up again. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know anyone was here.” He begins to turn as if to leave.. 

“It’s all right. You can stay,” Neal says. “This is a public garden.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to disturb you.”

It’s then that Neal notices where Peter’s eyes have fallen. He is no longer looking at Neal’s face at all, his gaze is lowered, transfixed on the skin of Neal’s bare arm. 

Neal sighs. “You’re not allowed to touch but you can still look and you can certainly sit in the same garden and talk to me.”

Peter meets Neal’s eyes. He looks surprised but has the grace to smile as he blushes slightly. He sits down a few feet from Neal, what Neal recognizes as a safe distance, and turns his face to the sun. 

After only a few seconds, he turns his head to Neal. “I’m Peter.”

“Oh, I remember.”

“Do you?” Peter asks, looking amused. 

“I do. I’m Neal.”

“Oh, I remember,” Peter says. 

They both chuckle at that and Neal feels the last remaining bit of tension disappearing. They settle into a companiable silence and Neal turns his attention back to his drawing. 

After a while he hears Peter say, “You draw very well. That’s lovely.”

Neal looks at the paper with a critical eye. “That’s very nice of you to say but it’s pretty horrible actually. I guess I’m just not feeling very inspired today.”

“No? Well, what usually inspires you?”

Neal shrugs. “I don’t know. Different things at different times. Sometimes people . . .”  
He pauses as an idea comes to him. He almost discards it, but in the end he turns to Peter and says, “I could draw you.”

“Me? Oh no. No, I’m not . . .” Peter doesn’t seem to know what to say, ending the sentence in a spluttering mess of words. 

Neal looks at him curiously. “Not what?”

“I’m just not the kind of person that people draw, that’s all.”

Ah, Neal gets it now. The smooth, confident negotiator doesn’t believe he’s attractive enough. Neal looks down, putting pencil to paper and begins to sketch. “No? Well, I disagree. I think you have a very interesting face, Peter. Strong. And imminently sketchable.”

“I think you just made that word up,” Peter says. 

Neal laughs, enjoying it when Peter joins in.

“But thank you, Neal,” Peter says after they both sober. 

“So shouldn’t you and your people be in a meeting with our people right about now?” Neal asks after a while. 

“We should be. But we hit an impasse and everyone felt it would be a good time for a break.”

“So where are your cohorts?”

Peter leans back on his elbows and looks up at the sky, giving Neal a perfect view of his profile. Neal can’t help but think that it’s a nice profile. 

“They decided to take a nap. I decided to wander,” Peter says.

“And you wandered over here.”

“Wandered to a lot of other places first. I just ended up here.”

Neal nods, moving pencil quickly over the paper as he peers at Peter from the corner of his eye. “Did you see anything you like?” He phrases the question so that it’s flirtatious. It makes him feel powerful, knowing that he can tease and play with men and women both and that nobody can touch him. It’s one of the few advantages of the Khan’s favorite plaything and being marked in this particular way.

But Peter either doesn’t notice or he chooses not to play along. He merely says, in a voice that’s calm and casual, “Many things. The palace is beautiful.”

Feeling a small sense of disappointment with Peter’s answer, Neal puts the finishing touches on his sketch in silence. He’d done it quickly and it’s slightly rough, but he’s happy with it. He turns it around toward Peter. “What do you think?”

Peter sits up and stares at the drawing. “That’s me,” he says, sounding surprised and confused. “You drew me.”

“Nothing gets past you, does it?” 

Peter levels a look at him before continuing. “Why would you . . . ?”

“I told you, you have an interesting face.”

“You were barely even looking at me.”

Neal laughs. “I’m a genius with peripheral vision.”

Peter reaches out for it but Neal deftly pulls it back and stands. “Uh huh. This one’s for me.”

And then Peter surprises Neal by saying, “Fine, but I keep the next one.”

“Who says there’s going to be a next one?”

Peter turns his face back up to the sun and closes his eyes. “Who says there isn’t?”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later, in his chambers, Neal sits on his chaise and stares down at the picture. The knock at the door barely gains his attention. He knows by the specific count of raps that it’s Moz, his best friend. 

“Come in,” he says, loud enough to be heard.

He scoots over and makes room so that Moz can settle in at his side. 

“How are the kitchens?” he asks. 

“Kitchen-like,” Moz responds. It’s their standard script, what they always say when they greet other, but it never ceases to elicit a smile from Neal. 

Moz is far too smart to be toiling away in the kitchens but he claims he prefers it to other, more high profile jobs. He’s fond of saying that at no time should the people in power know what you are truly capable of. 

Neal wonders often if Moz isn’t right.

“What do you have there?” Moz asks, peering down at the drawing. 

“Something I did in the garden today.”

“Isn’t that the negotiator from Jorun?” Moz asks. 

“Yeah.” 

“And you kept it?”

Neal lifts his gaze, meeting Moz’s. “Yes.”

“Why?”

It should be an easy question but for some reason it isn’t. He runs his fingers down the lines of the drawing, careful not to smudge. 

“I . . . he has a nice face,” Neal finally whispers.

“He has a nice face?” Moz repeats.

“I mean, he has an interesting face,” Neal says, voice growing stronger. 

“I’d hide that from the Khan if I were you.”

“Yes,” Neal says. He turns the drawing over, hiding Peter’s face. “The Khan doesn’t have to know everything.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and feedback are greatly appreciated

It’s the fourth time that Peter has met Neal in shadow and they still do little more than kiss. Not that Peter doesn’t want to, he wants all that Neal has to offer and wants to offer all that he is to Neal. 

No, it’s not that he doesn’t want to, but that he is afraid to. He is afraid to rub too much of the silver paint off of Neal’s skin, afraid that despite Neal’s assurances, the Khan will notice. 

_‘How does it work?’ he’d asked Neal once, in the beginning. ‘It doesn’t always come off. I’ve seen you brush against things, touch things, and it doesn’t always come off.’_

_‘It reacts to the heat and the oil of another human body,’ Neal had said. ‘Ingenious, isn’t it?’_

_‘No,’ Peter had said. It’s horrible.’_

“I love it when you kiss me,” Neal says, nearly purring as he leans in again for just that very thing.

“Neal . . .” 

“Less talking more kissing.” Neal licks at the corner of Peter’s lips, insistent. 

Peter opens for him, because as hard as it is to resist Neal, it’s even harder to deny him completely.

Neal kisses as if every touch of lips will be their last. He kisses desperately and urgently and leaves Peter feeling breathless and dizzy. 

But after a few heavenly moments of Neal stealing what feels like his very soul from him, Peter tries again. He breaks away just long to enough to whisper Neal’s name. 

“No,” Neal says. “You want to be serious. You’re going to ruin the mood.”

“I want to take you with me,” Peter spits out the words, too abrupt and too fast, but he has to get them out before Neal stops him.

“What?”

“It’s killing me knowing that I’m going to have to leave you soon. The thought of never seeing you again . . .” Peter shakes his head, unable to finish.

“I wouldn’t fit in your world, you know this. You’re married, Peter. You have a wife.”

“She would accept you,” Peter says, even if he doesn’t really know if it’s the truth. It _feels_ like the truth though; he’s almost certain that Elizabeth would welcome Neal into their house and into their life.

Neal shakes his head. “You don’t know that. And besides, how do you think you’ll get me out of here?”

“I’ve got some pull. I could ask. I could talk to people.”

“He’ll never let me go, Peter. You know this.”

“We could at least try.” Peter knows that he sounds desperate, but he is desperate. He’s beginning to feel as if there’s a ticking clock behind him at all times, ticking down to the day that he will no longer be able to look upon Neal’s face, the day that he will no longer be able to hear his voice or ideas or stories. And Peter isn’t too proud to admit that the idea of that day is terrifying.

“I don’t like talking about this,” Neal says.

“Neal . . .”

Frowning, Neal pulls completely away. “I don’t like talking about this. You’re ruining what little time we have to together.”

“I . . . all right,” Peter says, relenting more easily than he would have liked. Yet, it is simply impossible to deny Neal anything. He takes hold of Neal’s hand, pleased when he doesn’t pull away. “Let’s just enjoy the time we have together.”

“Now you’re talking sense,” Neal says. He doesn’t object when Peter draws him in. He simply follows, his body molding to fit against Peter’s. 

“But I will say this one last thing and I’m not going to apologize for it.”

This causes Neal stiffen in his arms, but he merely asks, though warily, “What is it?”

Peter takes in a breath, using it to embolden him. “I think I’m falling in love with you. I just think you should know.”

Neal laughs, sounding relieved. “That’s what you have to tell me?”

“Yes,” Peter answers, trying not to feel insulted at being laughed at.

“Because I’ve been falling in love with you since that first time in the garden.” Neal smiles, bright and sunny and a little bit wicked. “I’m just surprised it took you this long to reciprocate.”

There is nothing Peter can do but smile right back, his own relief at not being dismissed, at the fact that this feeling is mutual, making him weak at the knees. 

Luckily, Neal is right there to catch him. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Neither Peter nor Neal notice the way the shadows across from them shift, the way they separate until a man stands apart from them. 

So wrapped up in each other, they don’t see the man skulk away. 

The man’s name is Keller, a captain of the guard who has wanted Neal for as long as Neal has been in the palace. A cold, calculating man even in the best of times, he takes this new knowledge and digests it slowly.

Neal has never liked him, has always been wary of him. 

If Neal had seen him, he would have known to be afraid.


	6. Chapter 6

Peter watches in fascination as the sketch that Neal is working on comes to life.

“You’re really good,” he says. 

They’re back out in the garden and the sun is warm and comforting, the grass underneath them soft. Peter could almost fall asleep except he knows that Neal is sketching him and he doesn’t want to be caught unawares.

“Thank you,” Neal answers with a smile. 

“No, really good,” Peter insists. “You could have been a professional.”

The edges of Neal’s smile slowly melt down until his mouth is a tense, straight line.

“What’s wrong?” Peter asks. 

“Nothing. It’s nothing.” Neal resumes sketching, dropping his head down until his nose is all but hidden in the sketchpad.

“No, come on. I’ve upset you.” It’s more of a question than a statement, really. Peter doesn’t know Neal well enough to gauge his reactions. 

A few seconds tick by before Neal answers, clearly weighing his words. “You look like a trustworthy man.”

“I like to think I am.”

Neal’s flirting again, Peter realizes. It’s dim and muted, but it’s flirting just the same. Peter would bet money that this is some kind of defense system, a default mode that Neal falls back on almost unconsciously.

“If I tell you, you promise not to hold it against me?”

“I promise not to hold it against you,” Peter says. “Unless you want me to.” He cringes as soon as the words come out of his mouth. He never was very good at flirting. He’s still surprised he ever managed to date much less marry a beautiful woman like Elizabeth.

“It’s just that . . . this is what I used to do. For a living, I mean,” Neal says.

“You were an artist?”

“Yes. And a fairly good one if I do say so myself.” 

“Can I ask what happened?”

“The Khan happened.”

Peter’s curious to hear the story, curious to know what brought Neal to this. He’s not sure if he should ask for any more; maybe this is all the information that Neal is willing to give. And yet . . . yet he does anyway. 

“The Khan?”

This time the period of silence is brief before Neal answers. “I wasn’t always like this, Peter. I had a life. I had a home. I had just had my second art showing when a man approached me and invited me to show my work at the Khan’s palace. It was supposed to be very exclusive, only a handful of young artists were being given the opportunity. I said yes, of course. Saying no wasn’t even an option, but I was genuinely excited. I thought that it was going to be a huge step in my career.”

“Was it all just a ruse to get you here?”

“Oh no, it was real. And it went off very well. Until the Khan took a shining to me. That very night he asked me to leave my life behind and become one of his concubines.” Neal smiled grimly. “And by asked I mean that if I refused, he would kill me.”

Peter’s been briefed on the Khan and his ways. This shouldn’t be surprising to him and it certainly shouldn’t be as upsetting as it is. 

“So I accepted, of course,” Neal continues. “And four years later, here I am. Favorite concubine. And now art is only a hobby.”

“How do you stand it?” Peter asks before he can censor himself, before he can blunt the dagger in the question.

“I just keep thinking that he’ll get tired of me one day. And then he’ll let me go. And maybe . . . maybe I’ll get to have a life again.” Neal pauses. “It has to happen one day, right?” he asks, and it’s not so much a question but a plea.

“I’m sure it will,” Peter says. He hates that the words feel like a lie.


	7. Chapter 7

“He’s leaving soon,” Moz says. 

“I know,” Neal replies. He’s standing by the window, staring out into the courtyard below. He doesn’t bother to turn around when he asks, “Why do you say that like I don’t know?”

“Because I worry about you.” Moz says. “I think maybe you care about this guy too much.”

“And what am I supposed to do? Not care?”

“I think you should protect yourself, Neal. You’re going to get hurt if you don’t start protecting yourself.”

Sighing, Neal turns to look at Moz. He appreciates the concern but it’s not as if he can simply stop what he feels for Peter. He’s in love with the man and yes, maybe he has fallen too hard, too fast, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s real. 

He’s about to reply to Moz when he hears someone pounding at the door. 

“Company?” Moz asks.

Neal holds out his hand. “Stay here.” He crosses from the bedroom suite into the living area, just in time to see the doors opening and two of the guards entering. 

“Can I help you gentlemen?”

One of the guards, Aric, strides forward and places a strong hand on Neal’s right arm. “The Khan requests your company.”

“Now?” Neal asks, confused. “He didn’t say anything about an afternoon-“

“Now, whore.” Aric tugs, pulling Neal forward.

“Excuse me?” Neal balks at the word and the sneering tone with which it was delivered. While it’s true that he is little more than a glorified whore, no one ever calls him that. Ever. 

“Just come along.” The other guard has grasped Neal’s left arm, both of them now pulling him forward, their grip strong as iron. 

It hits Neal then, just as they’re escorting him out of the room and down the hall, that they are touching him. It’s a simple thing and yet so monumental. No one touches him but the Khan, no one would ever dare. 

He’s led into the throne room where he’s forced to kneel in front of the Khan. He looks around briefly, seeing that there are two other guards in the room, behind and to either side of the Khan. Seated to the left of Temur Kahn is a man Neal recognizes as Keller. There’s something about the man that has always reminded Neal of a treacherous, poisonous snake. His mere presence is enough to make Neal shudder. 

“Neal.” Khan Temur’s voice is imperious and cold. And frightening. Everything about this is frightening. 

“My lord,” Neal manages to say, somehow keeping his voice level.

“I needed to speak to you, Neal.”

“Those men, the guards, they touched me,” he blurts out, almost without thought.

“Yes. That is no longer of any consequence.”

The words chill Neal to his very core. If his being touched is of no consequence, it can only mean one thing: that he is no longer the favored concubine. He has dreamed of this day, of finally being free, but something tells him that he is not going to be pleased with what the Khan is about to say to him. 

“My lord?”

“Keller here came to me with a very interesting story a few days ago. Can you imagine what that story was, Neal?”

Neal doesn’t dare speak, can’t speak. His throat has gone bone dry, his heart pounding too quickly in his chest to even attempt speech. 

“Keller, why don’t you tell Neal?”

Keller’s smile is victorious and smug. “I saw you. And Peter. In the hallway, kissing.”

No . . . oh no, no, no . . . 

“Of course, I didn’t believe him,” the Khan says. “Not right away. Not my favorite. Not my Neal,” the Khan says. 

He pauses, allowing Neal a glimmer of hope.

“So I had you followed.”

Neal’s heart sinks as the last of his fragile hope vanishes. They’d been so careful, always so careful. They had thought their upcoming separation the worst of their problems, but that was nothing compared to what would come now.

“What do you have to say for yourself, Neal?” the Khan prompted.

Knowing that there is no point in denying the accusations, Neal pitches forward, hand upturned in supplication. “My lord, please . . . I beg for your forgiveness, your mercy.”

Temur Khan shakes his head slowly, a dangerous hint of a smile on his face. “Really, Neal . . . when have you known me to show either one?”

If he cannot save himself, and he knows now that he cannot, then perhaps he can help Peter. If he takes all the blame, then maybe, just maybe . . . “It was a foolish mistake on my part, my lord. But it was all me. He wanted no part of it. I seduced him. I tricked him into it.” 

There’s silence for a moment as the Khan seems to consider Neal’s words. Then he raises his hand and with a slow gesture, beckons for Neal to come closer. Neal does, knowing instinctively to stay close to the ground and crawl. 

He moves until he is kneeling in front of the Khan then settles his head against the man’s knee. He looks up at him, trying desperately to plead for mercy with his eyes. This face won over the Khan once, maybe it will again. 

When the Khan speaks, it is not to him. 

“I’ll deal with Peter and his associates in a moment, but for now, Keller, Neal is all yours. Be sure to share him with all your men. Do as you wish, but give no killing blows. He is to survive this night. And perhaps many others, until misery and wretchedness drag him to his death.”

Neal whispers ‘no’ and startles back, but is stopped by the hand cruelly gripping his hair and holding him in place. 

“Thank you, my lord,” Keller says. 

“On second thought, Keller, don’t ruin his face too badly.” The Khan pats Neal’s face lightly, almost tenderly, a contrast to the hand in his hair. “It always was my favorite thing about him. Except for his tight ass, of course.”


End file.
